Passing Notes With The Boy

Recently I was making the boy’s lunch when I thought about the picture I’d drawn with him which now lives on the back of his bedroom door.

He’d tossed a piece of paper in front of me while saying “daddy, just draw whatever and I’ll draw it next!”

So, I drew. And this is what I came up with.

From that point on, “puffy leaf floaty guy” became a staple in the house.

I’d draw him on their arms cause “I want a tattoo like yours daddy.”

I’d draw him on pieces of paper and randomly leave leaf the puffy dude somewhere for the kids to find.

Then, it hit me one fine coffee-aroma-filled morning.

“Golly gee gosh darn-it! I should totally draw the boy a picture for his lunch box!”

So, I did.

And, he did something completely unexpected…the little bastard wrote back.

So, like a tiny puppy given his treat for the first time I started wagging my tail obliviously knocking things off tables and the next morning, I did it again!

And he wrote back!

The third time I drew the cat from this awesome animated shorts called “Simon’s Cat” which my kids love.

And he wrote back!

Then, the boy schooled the hell out of me.

Yesterday I sketched out this quick little motivating message as a small pat on the boy’s back in the middle of his day.

And what does he do? He out-draws me with his version of himself "rocking."

It’s my first experience being one-upped by the boy. He “out-creativelyed” me. (Yeah, I just made that word up.)

And I guess I’m cool with it, but it kinda stings a little.

I’m the creative, out-of-the-box, shock-value funny one in the family damn it!!

But, then I realize what an awesome thing a sense of humor is in life. And, if he’s going to have a sense of humor I would want it to be unique and creative.

So, bring it on my man. I’m ready to up-my-game in the note passing arena!

Let’s do this!



The Kids Take Over My Blog

I’m one lucky bastard to be able to work from home 75% of the time. But the days I do go into work, well, it’s a bit of a commute.

But, being the news junky that I am, I slide the shades down over the eyes, make oh sweet love to my coffee, and slip on a little easy National Public Radio (NPR) to listen to.

But the past two weeks…well, it’s been fundraising time at the ole NPR station.

For those who don’t listen to NPR, here’s the quick skinny:

It’s a private non-profit. So, they need members and donors to survive which means they fundraise on the radio a few times a year.

And, when they do…well, it makes you want to slam your head into a concrete wall.

BUT!!!! It did get me thinking. What if I treated my blog like NPR?

Here’s how it would probably go down:

Me: “Hi, and welcome to Why Is Daddy Crying. Today my son walked down the stairs and claimed he took a “really solid shit,” and ten minutes later my daughter was caught feeding a pencil to the dog to chew on.”

Grayson: “But, before we go any further, did you know that for just $1 a day for 365 days you could become a “stalker” member of my dad’s blog?”

Macy: “That’s right. With your membership, you will get a tiny sheet of paper to keep in your wallet or purse that tells others you stalk Why Is Daddy Crying. In addition, we’ll email you plastic fake teeth fashioned by renowned modern artist Akejeudh Von Piekdhjak. The teeth are perfect replicas of the massive front gap-teeth Why Is Daddy Crying lives with each day.”

Grayson: “You know what Macy, this hour only….I’ll even throw in a spork that Why Is Daddy Crying tried to kill himself with the last time I got out of bed and interrupted mommy and him knocking boots.”

Macy: “WOW!!! That spork is legendary! Remember the time the dog tried to eat it and daddy snagged it just in time and started chasing the entire family down the block with it? Now THAT’s a gift!”

Grayson: “It sure is sister-lady. In fact, I’ll go even a step further. Six years ago my mother informed Why Is Daddy Crying that he was going to be a dad with their second child.

“At that very moment he performed the rare, and never-seen-before action of “shartuking.” That’s right Macy. The man literally shat, farted, and puked all over himself.

“Now, it wasn’t his sexist moment in life, but we were fortunately there to capture the moment and strip and bag the man of his clothes."

Macy: “WOW, Grayson…that is phenomenal.”

Grayson: “Yes, yes it is Macy. Now, for those listening. If you make the decision to give $5 a day for 365 days, supporting Why Is Daddy Crying at the ‘come around the corner and I’ll let you ‘see it’ level, then you’ll get a 6 inch by 6 inch swatch of the clothes he wore upon the shartuking incident.”

Macy: “I don’t’ even know what to say. That’s flat-out epic Grayson.”

Grayson: “It won’t happen again in our lifetime Macy, that’s for sure.”

Macy: “So there you have it…it’s your choice. Give at the ‘stalker’ level or the ‘come around the corner and I’ll let you see it level’ – either way, your money is going to support a man who we sadly call our dad, except for when he’s face down on our front lawn…then, well…we refer to him as the ‘jumpy house.”

Grayson: “So give today and support our ongoing efforts to make our dad cry.”



My Kids Launch Political Attack Ads On Each Other

It’s that time of the year. Election time!

I always loath and love election years.

Why? You may ask…

Because I LOVE the attack ads.

The formula is brilliant. Spend 15 seconds knocking your opponent down, pouring gasoline on them, and lighting them on fire in front of the world. Then spend 15 more seconds making yourself look like you not only walk on water, but created water, the land, Earth, and play poker with baby Jesus on the weekends.

I can just imagine the young-buck interns and political public relations strategists who sit around a large bong coming up with these brilliant, mind-numbing attack-ads.

So, with that thinking, I decided I should run a mock election between my kids. My son, the left-wing redheaded advocate of creating government programs (like ICFTAYS – Ice Cream For The American Youth Service) running against my daughter, the right-wing lover of supporting corporate America (primarily American Girl dolls) are vying for the senate seat in my Congress.

So now the stage is set…let the attack ads go!!!

This message is approved by Macy.

Candidate Grayson. He wants you to believe he can hoola hoop for an hour straight. He claims he can spell “because” without cheating. And he even tells adults that he loves broccoli.

Candidate Grayson pees with the seat down and doesn’t wipe-up afterwards. He once told his mother she has a large butt….and then laughed. Candidate Grayson eats his own boogers.

If you want a booger-eater representing you in Congress then Grayson’s your guy.

Candidate Macy once saved a unicorn from a tar pit and 10 minutes later fed Africa. Candidate Macy invented the clock and recently negotiated with the Mayans to fix their calendar so we all won’t die in 2012.

Candidate Macy once made Chuck Norris cry.

This November, vote Candidate Macy for Senate and let that turd-wrestler Grayson go back to the school yard.

“Hi, I’m Macy and I approve this message and I look really cute in pigtails.”

I’m fairly confident that’s an ad my dear daughter would have helped assemble and happily distributed on any media outlet willing to take her money.

Now, on to the boy’s ad.

This message is approved by Grayson

Candidate Macy kicks me in the shin when she doesn’t get what she wants. She can’t read, she can barely write her name, she doesn’t flush after she poops or pees, and she still needs her mommy to help her ride her 2-wheel bike.

I have personally seen Candidate Macy almost kill a grown man over her blankey being washed in the washing machine.

I’ve witnessed her beating a tree with a stick, smashing a tiny ant, and telling her mother she hates her just because she wanted to put her hair in pigtails.

Is that who you want representing you in Congress?

Candidate Grayson mapped out and personally taught the entire system of migration to birds in order to give these flying beasts a better lifestyle.

Candidate Grayson personally hand delivered Saddam Hussein to hell and then turned around and made it rain in the Sahara Desert.

He holds the record for the most “your mamma” jokes told in 24 hours, has the cure for cancer, and holds the patent for the design on ladybugs shells.

It’s pretty clear Candidate Grayson’s the man we all need in Congress.

“Hi, I’m Grayson. I approve this message and I CAN spell ‘because’ without a cheat sheet.”

All right....that's it. You've read both ads. Now tell me....who would you vote for?!

I Was Caught Flogging the Dolphin

OK, I’ve been holding-out on this little story for a while.

But, thanks to the support of all my family and friends I think I can finally say it and be OK.

Hi, my name is Why Is Daddy Crying and I’ve been caught by my mom jerking off.

There!!! I said it OK?!

And the words I yelled immediately after?

“Damn it Mom!!!!!” as I quickly arm-swept my old school 1980s Playboys off the bed and into my lap hoping they’d cover my little chubby and whisk me back in time 5 minutes so I could make the decision to not pull on my pud that day.

Let me set the stage.

It’s afternoon. I can’t remember where my brother is, but I’m alone in the house with the mom. She’s downstairs doing whatever it is moms do in the late 1980s.

I’m approximately 12-years-old and, thanks to my older brother, have become quite the expert of making oh sweet sweet love to my hand.

I’m in my room. Hormones are raging. And, for the 12^th time that morning, the “feeling” hits me.

So, I drop trow, grab one of many Playboys my brother and I have skillfully stolen from our grandfather’s collection in his closet, and settle in for teenage bliss.

But here’s where I make the critical mistake. Instead of heading into the bathroom that’s private and attached to my bedroom, what do I do? I decide to knock-it-out in the middle of my room in broad day light.

My thinking at the time, “I’ll be able to hear mom coming up the stairs, so I’ll have enough time to pull the pants up, tuck the magazine, and be all ‘hey, what’s up mother? Ready to go to the store?’”

Some psychiatrists and people like my wife might say, “you wanted to get caught you pervert!”

“Not by my freakin’ mother!!!” has always been my response.

So, I stand at the edge of my bed, centerfold presenting itself, pants dropped, and I’m whaling…I mean I’m going to town like I’ve never done before.

In fact, I’m going so hard and fast that when I hear my mother say, “are you ready to go yet?” she’s already climbed all the steps, seen her son pulling on his Johnson, and made it halfway into her room.

I’ll never forget the feeling of going from pure bliss to absolute shame within 0.0008ths of a second.

“Damn it MOOOOOOMMMM!!!!” I screamed, like it was her fault.

To make it worse? I had to get in the car with her immediately after and go to the store.

It was horrific.

Walking down the stairs and getting into the car was in my mind far far worse than the last walk any death-row inmate had ever experienced. And, of course, I’m mad as shit at my mom and not at myself for spotlighting my pre-teen horniness.

“Honey, everyone does it, you just have to find a private place to do things like that, or simply shut your bedroom door. It has a lock on it you know…”

“MOOOMMM!!!” I yell. “Just promise me you won’t tell dad or my brother!! Please mom!”

Despite her promise I got called downstairs later that night. I immediately knew what was up because as I entered the kitchen, my mother whisked my brother away so I’d be alone with my dad.

This next part was almost as bad as my mother catching me as I charged my laser.

My father begins to not only explain how “natural” this is, but proceeds to tell me how he regularly masturbates himself.

“Oh sure, I do it all the time! Usually in the bathroom or shower, but it’s a normal process.”

I can only imagine the look on my face was one of absolute horror.

It’s the same look I’d imagine having if I woke up at the age of 6 hoping to find money left by the tooth fairy and instead found my hungover father passed out next to me in bed while holding a half-full beer and wearing fairy wings and dry-humping my most prized sock monkey stuffed animal “Mr. Monk-A-Monk.”

Yeah, THAT look.

I was never quite the same again after that “talk.” I put a ban on touching myself but waved the white flag after 14 hours had passed. I was proud of my restraint.

But a piece of me died that day as the first of many sheets hiding the realities of life and my parents were lifted.



The Teaching Of The 5-Second Rule

It’s one of the top 5 most epic rules of all time. And, I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to teach it to my boy.

I spent the first 6 years of my fatherhood watching the kids crumble into tears and tantrums after fumbling a delicious goodie from their hands.

“Quick! Pick it up, pick the dirt off and eat it!”

“NNNNNOOOOOOO!!!!!!” was always the tearful response. And there it laid.

To make it worse, my obsessive cleaning of my hands in their classrooms as a volunteer has taught them that the outside world is nothing but a smoking germ factory. This only fueled their desire to consider their popsicle kaput.

We tried it all, “What? Dirt on it? Awesome!!!! Eat it quick, that stuff’s like a magical crispy awesomeness or something!!!”

“You’re not gonna eat that?” Then I’d reach down, snatch the popsicle up and cram it down my throat to show it was OK. I only did that once. It was like throwing gasoline on a match next to a paper factory.

Then, a few weeks ago, a light bulb went off. I remembered that I have the short-lived “my daddy knows everything and walks on water” powers.

So, in my most confident, happenstance voice I said to my son, “dude, you don’t know about the coveted 5-second rule?”

“The what?”

“Son!!!? Seriously? After all this time? Oh my…oh my.”

“Daddy, what!!?! Tell me!! What about the five…ummm”

“The 5-second rule Grayson!! It’s vitally important. Are you sure you’re ready? Are you sure you can handle this?”

“Daddy tell me!!! Please!”

“OK my son. If you should happen to accidentally drop a piece of food on the ground for a length of less than 5 seconds that doesn’t touch pee, poop, dead animals, your sister, or anything else that may cause death, you can simply blow it off, and eat it. That is all.”

“What do you mean that is all?”

“I mean, that is all. Drop an ice cream cone, quickly grab it, blow it off and keep chowing.”

“Really? That’s a rule?”

“I won’t lie, it’s saved me from being hungry many a-time. But keep in mind! It doesn’t work for gum, candy, etc… that’s been laying around for days. It has to have fallen within the 5-second time period.”

Immediately the boy dropped his pretzel stick on the ground and looked up at me.

I started counting, “One-one thousand, two-one thousand…”

The boy quickly snatched the pretzel stick back up, blew on it, then looked up at me again. I smiled at him and waited.

He took a bite, slowly chewing it to make sure it didn’t explode his jaw or cause him to clutch his chest and fall to the ground riddled with impending death. Then a huge smile came across his face and he mumbled, “so awesome.”

My job here is done.